Foreign Relations
by nostalchique
Summary: A collection of Alfred/Arthur drabbles and oneshots. Rated from K-MA.
1. Words and Actions

Alfred was not a man of words but of actions.

Words got in the way of things; they meddled with emotions and often were misunderstood, but actions, actions were clear, decisive, and not open for misinterpretation. Alfred watched his sometimes-father as he cleared away some clutter in some room, leaving him alone in the veranda to the tea and half burnt scones he had left out for him. He was getting irritated. Here he had gone out of his way to invite Arthur to come visit him and all he could do was try and clean his house.

_Just like always_.

Alfred sighed and got up, leaning against the door frame he glared at the shorter man over his glasses,

"Stop cleaning."

Arthur flicked a passing glance over to him, "I wouldn't have to clean if you kept the place up yourself. Go sit, I'll be done in about an hour."

Alfred narrowed his eyes. Words, words were useless on him. So he took action. In a few quick strides he was by Arthur's side, one quick jerk and he knocked the papers and files he had been trying to organize out of his hands. Before Arthur could even protest he had his face in-between his hands forcing him to look up.

"Hey-! What in the bloody hell do you think you-"

"Shut up."

He ripped off his glasses letting them fall to the floor with an indifferent crack as he crushed his mouth against his, prying open the resisting lips with eager strokes of his tongue. He kissed him thoroughly, breathing in the musky scent of the tea, and running his hands through the messy blond hair. Lips tinted pink and swollen Arthur stared up at him breathlessly as he pulled back,

"…what are you doing? Why do you…"

Alfred's face twisted slightly

Alfred was not a man of words but of actions.

Because he could not say the words his body acted in the name of.

_Because…I love you… stupid._

"…can't you just know?"

Alfred released him,

"…tea's getting cold. Let's go back to the veranda."

The taller man nodded, picking up his broken glasses before following his father out.


	2. Bare Threads

He had once been the greatest world power. Had expanded his empire from the tiny confounds of his island to the very ends of the world. He had been invincible, at least he had felt that way, but slowly the once powerful shackles he held locked fast on the empire slipped from his fingers like frayed thread. One by one, each of them taking a little bit of that strength with them until he was left, tired, and older with a handful of strings.

He had held so tightly, had tried so hard to hold unto the cracks in the foundations, to hold them up...but _he_ tore away.

_He_ sucked the life from him, he gave _him_ everything...but demanded too much in return, until a silent debt had formed between them and all hope of paying it back was lost. Alfred had known it. Alfred had abandoned him to run from it.

And now Arthur, once the greatest country in the world...watches as Alfred holds the shackles of the world, and silently...resentfully stares at the fraying threads Alfred can't see.

That he couldn't see.


	3. Quiet Stares

Sometimes Alfred caught Arthur staring at him.

Just staring, with this weird look on his face, something like a smile but there was sadness to it. It made him uncomfortable, bringing up things from their past and Arthur knew that so he would wait until his back was turned.

Annoyed Alfred looks down at him,

"What?"

Arthur's smile disappears,

"…I was just thinking-"

"Yeah well don't. You always get so damn nostalgic. You need to learn to let things go, pop." He tries to laugh like it's a joke but the strained sound comes out mockingly. Arthur hides his pain well like any Englishman but Alfred can see it even without his glasses on.

"-about when you were young."

His sometimes father finished stubbornly his voice cracking as he speaks and Alfred can't help but laugh.

"You can't win me over by bringing up that shit."

"…you loved me so much back then."

The taller man groans, he's really pushing it today.

"Yeah I did…a lot has changed since then. I've changed…but-"

Alfred sighs quietly, walking over to rest a hand on his fathers shoulder,

"-_that_…never really changed. Okay?"

Arthur isn't sure he believes him but he lets the subject drop.


	4. What's in a Name?

Alfred sighed, it was no big deal. He didn't understand why Arthur was freaking out, but the brit stood in front of him arms crossed and his face reddening with rage...but he slipped a small smile anyway. He was so cute.

Arthur held up the cell phone he had jerked away from him with a stern look, "I'm just saying. Don't tell people "Sorry, I'm spending time with my **boyfriend**" when you're out with me!"

He laughed, "Well ain't ya?"

"No! I am most certainly not! "I'm spending time with my _father"_ or just "Arthur" would suffice!"

The American leaned forward pretending to consider this as he rubbed his chin, "So...when I fuck you should I think of you as my father then too?"

He was surprised the brit didn't chuck the phone at him the way his face contorted at his words.

"D...don't be disgusting."

"I don't think it's disgusting. I think its fun."

"Not _that _you dolt. I mean...it sounds weird."

"Hey, you're the dad whose fucking his son."

Arthur covered his face with his hands and Alfred was sure that redness in his cheeks was embarrassment now.

"Technically you were adopted!"

"Still diddlin' your kid."

"S-shut up!"

Alfred chuckled, slowly getting up he patted the brits shoulder, rubbing it reassuringly, "Okay...so what should I call you? Pop? Daddy? Or maybe I should say I'm out with my girlfriend?"

"Don't you dare." he grumbled lowly as he glared up at him through his messy bangs.

"What then?"

The brit sighed and held out his arms exasperated, "Can't I just be "Arthur"?!"

A small smile tugged at the corner of Alfred's mouth, "Nope. Thats boring. I want a pet name...something only I can call you."

Arthur's eyes hardened, "Does everything have to be a game with you?"

He said nothing.

"Even me?"

At that he grinned wolfishly,

"My favorite game to play."


	5. Weak

"Touch me."

Two words. Two simple words spoken in a shaken soft whisper had as much force behind it as a fist to the jaw. He stared dumbfounded at him, uncertain how to even respond. The other mans eyes were red and puffy the green brightened by the slick excess of tears building up, daring to start to slip from the corners.

Five beats. That's how long it took for Alfred to roughly grab his sometimes fathers arms and pull him, crush him to his chest.

He didn't know what else to do as he felt Arthur's body give out with a shudder his arms the only thing keeping him up. It isn't until he sobs that Alfred feels his chest pang horribly as his heart clogs in his throat. It's loud for a moment then breaks off jaggedly as the other man tries to hold it back. Panic grips hold of Alfred as he feels weak arms clinging desperately around his waist. He wants to say something, something that will make it all go away, something that will make his father snap at him, tell him how stupid he is, how foolish, how naive. Anything. Anything but this.

Arthur doesn't tell him what's wrong.

And Alfred doesn't have the heart to ask.

When he finally gets control of himself the brit takes out his handkerchief and wipes his face and stands silently, visibly embarrassed and ashamed.

"...thank you."

"You're welcome" the words come out fast and strained. Akwardly the American rests his hand on Arthur's shoulder, pats once. Twice. Then hurriedly leaves the room. His sleeve is still wet from the tears.


	6. You Sure Talk Perty

"You know most people find British accents highly attractive-"

Arthur looked up from his crossword puzzle with a curious expression

"I for one think its a crock of shit." Alfred finished with a smug grin.

The British man narrowed his eyes and scribbled down another answer quickly, "At least my accent is refined and associated with intelligence. Yours however I've seem to notice is used quiet often to display how ignornat and uneducated people are."

"Is that right." Alfred said slowly getting up from where he sat on the sofa in the TV room and making his way over to where Arthur sat.

"I don't think you 'ought should have said that there."

Arthur scoffed, "If you're trying to change my opinion on your countries dialect you are failing at it completely. It doesn't help you can't even form a proper sentence when talking like that."

"Now sir, I think it's mighty damn cruel of ya to be talkin' about folks like that. Just 'cause we don talk all proper like ya'll don mean our way of speakin' is lesser then yours."

Arthur forced a nervous laugh as Alfred closed in on him, in vain he tried to focus on his crossword,

"My lord, so many grammer laws just violated..."

The corners of the American's lips twitched up into a smile as he grabbed hold of the sides of the chair and leaned down,

"Sir, I don think you are understandin' what I had says when I told ya that ya ought not to be makin' fun of me."

"Ha. Why don't "ya'll" get out of my personal space? And take your redneck talk with you."

Alfred's hand quickly moved to grab the Englishman's chin, keeping his eyes to his,

"Beg pardon sir. But you said that wrong." he cooed teasingly in the southern drawl.

"Ya have to bend ya tongue back, like makin' a cup. Let the 'll draw out a bit, then _ya'll_ have it sir."

The dark blond man scowled and jerked his head in an attempt to get away from his grip, but he held firmly.

"Let go. I don't want to learn how to speak you're bloody accent."

"Nah, that ain't right...maybe I should show ya sir?"

Arthur struggled harder this time, dropping the crossword to the floor as he grabbed hold of the American's wrist,

"Don't-"

Leaning forward Alfred whispered in his ear, "I'd be mighty appreciative sir, if ya kept still. Cause ya see I can't move my tongue proper like if ya are squirmin about."

His breath was hot as his voice dipped deeper, "And I know how ya like things good and proper..."

A undeniable shiver ran up the other mans spine as he spoke, giving the sensitive skin of his ear a few small nips until he whimpered faintly. He slid his mouth, barely brushing his lips down Arthur's jaw murmuring all the while in that "redneck" accent that he swore the British man had said he despised a moment ago, but now each word seemed to rise goosebumps along the trail of Alfred's mouth was making down his neck.

Holding Arthur's shoulder back with his other hand Alfred pressed his mouth against the British mans. Arthur kept his mouth tightly shut as Alfred licked at his lips trying to coax him to part them. Slowly he slid the hand from Arthur's shoulder down his chest, and rubbed experimentally until he felt a small jump go through the British mans body.

"There..." he murmured against the kiss and slid his fingertips slowly over the mans nipple until the sensitive skin rose up. His face flushed Arthur let slip a sound of protest giving Alfred the chance to quickly plunge his tongue in, forgetting himself he prodded and stroked against his tongue heatedly feeling his breath come quicker in excitement. Feeling Arthur tense under him he slowed and carefully he pressed against his tongue, forcing him to make a "cup" like shape. The British man let slip a groan, but whether from annoyance or pleasure Alfred wasn't sure and didn't particularly care. Fingers slipped into the back of his hair, playing with the blond strands as Arthur sucked at his tongue after a moment, relaxing abruptly as he surrendered up his mouth. Eagerly Alfred loosened his hold and rested a knee between the other mans legs pressing it forwards when a sharp tug at the back of his hair jerked his head up and away.

"Ow! That wasn't very nice."

Alfred chuckled as he let the accent slip as he tried to look down at his sometimes father/brothers face.

"You-...best keep _ya'll_ hands to ya'self. If ya don't want ta have'ta spend the rest of the evenin' pickin' glass shards out of ya baby blues. _How was that_?"

The American gave his chesire grin, "Perfect, sir."


	7. Sociopath

-- He never saw him show any kind of deep or meaningful emotions. He was just...well...Alfred. Always smiling, always teasing and always always eating.

Never saw him cry, except when he was a child long ago but those tears had been replaced with an odd crooked sort of frown that made Alfred look more puzzled then hurt. As if he didn't fully understand the feeling and wished to be rid of it as soon as possible.

Arthur might have called his actions borderline sociopathic. Especially by the way even when his enemies lay bleeding and defeated before him and the buildings around him lay in heaps Alfred would turn and smile brightly,

"I won."

He would smile over the maimed corpses of the innocent.

But this is who he is.

And Arthur knows he loves him no matter what he does.

It is like a stake in his heart though as he feels the words daring to slip at the tip of his tongue every time Alfred pats his head teasingly and tells him he loves him.

"No you don't."

The words have become to slick, they burn like heated oil on his tongue, to keep in him anymore.

Alfred's mouth twitches into an odd crooked frown.

"You are incapable of love." Arthur spits out the words bitterly his heart aching, aching for him to deny him. To get angry. To proof him wrong even if it means making him hate him.

Please...love me. Hate me. Something strong, something deeper then this...then this polite indifference.

Alfred finally grins,

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

He shrugs and begins to walk away and Arthur yells after him. To proof himself wrong.

"I love you."

Believe me.

"I love you!"

I wish I didn't.

Alfred stares at him with only a vague curiosity and returns slowly patting his head with a light hearted laugh, he smiles that familiar broad, handsome, nostalgic, fake, empty smile.

"Or course you do Iggy. I know that."

"...does it make your heart ache?" Arthur finally asks his eyes glazing over.

"Hmm? Why would it do that?"

So naive, so childish, so cruel.

Arthur laughs,

"You wouldn't know."


	8. Morning

The sound of pans rattling down the stairs was an ominous sound considering who it was who was attempting to make breakfast. Despite the knowledge that whatever smelt good now was going to be burnt in a few moments Alfred entertained the idea that he might eat the food just so the other man wouldn't feel the anxiety of having to talk to him. Arthur was always like this...the morning after. Jumpy, shy, and over all just rattled and flustered. It took all of the Americans self control not to make some comment about how the Brit limped a little when he walked or how their were small bruises visible beneath his collar at the back of his neck. As usual Arthur was already dressed wrapped back up in his image and denial while Alfred poured himself some coffee shirtless and in too big pajama bottoms. He had yet to put his glasses on for the day as he sat at the table and settled with watching the Brit nervously pace back and forth from the stove top to the sink, doing dishes from the meal they had left uneaten the night before.

"Mornin."

"...good morning."

It was awkward exchanges like these that made Alfred wish it was dark again. In the dark Arthur was less...modest. The coffee left a bitter taste in his mouth as Alfred stood bringing up his hands to rest on Arthur's smaller hips stopping his almost frantic movements.

"It's too early. Let's go back to bed."

Arthur tensed beneath his touch, "It's almost noon you lazy git."

"You're doin it wrong Iggy." he remarked over his shoulder as he watched the other man attempt to fold an omelet, "I'm tired. I didn't get much sleep last night...and by the sounds coming out of your mouth last night I don't think you were anywhere close to being asleep either. Come with me."

He nuzzled surprisingly gently against Arthur's neck eagerly hoping that the relaxing of his hips beneath his touch was a sign he would give in.

"It will burn."

"I assumed as much."

Arthur turned to glare over his shoulder at him before Alfred tugged him out of the kitchen, flicking off the stove as he pulled the reluctant mans hand leading him back up the stairs and to the bedroom. Their clothes from the night before were still strewn about the room, the sheets unchanged. Arthur made a face at him as he tried to undress the Brit himself, tugging Alfred's hands away before unbuttoning his own shirt and stripping down to his the undershirt beneath it and his boxers.

"Lay down."

His face heated the Brit lay back on the crumpled sheets and Alfred crawled down to lay next to him slipping an arm beneath him and bringing him close as the other arm wrapped around his waist, sighing, sleepy and content.

"That's better..."

"Don't breathe on me. You smell like coffee."

"Shut up, Iggy."


	9. The New World

(An Alternate telling of how England met America. I watched too much _The New World_ with Colin Firth)

After months on a ship the men had found him a good omen. His hair was the same golden color as the stones they had come to find within the earth. He brought smiles to his mens' haggard faces over the next few days as he cautiously peeked around trees and crept in bushes to get a better look at these strange men. He was young, barely entering the first years of his boyhood, clad in the hides of animals his bare chest tanned golden from the sun a glow of wonder always shining in his eyes. Blue...bright like the sky.

He attempted to pick up one of the heavy helms of the soldiers, falling over from its weight the men laughed and the boy smiled.

England tried to teach him to speak as the boy often chattered in strange languages, always changing to the point he wasn't sure it was a language at all. The British man would point to the sky and the cloud covered orb above then look to him expectantly as the boy lay on a grassy bed sleepily,

"_Keshowse."_

"Sun."

The boy tipped his head curiously and said again, "_Piisim...Kiilhswa."_

England shook his head, "_Sun._"

His eyes lit with understanding as he smiled, "Sun."

* * *

The winter was harsh, the cold air taking away what little food they had managed to grow, their clothes no match against the North American winds. The boy came, clad in the furs of beasts twice his size and when he saw their state he left and returned with more people like him all whom spoke in the strange tongue. With them they brought furs and food, England gave them kettles and beads, gunpowder in exchange. At night the boy remained in the town and during the coldest evenings he would lay close to England, his tan body naked in the soft light. No shame, no knowledge that such things were improper England felt his heart soften as he let the warm body into his arms.

Winter changed to Spring and still no workers. The ships brought only useless nobles who wished to spend their days mucking about in the dirt and sand for gold that only existed in the their minds and in the boys hair. Playing the surf of the bay he pointed far out to the horizon and looked at the older man,

"Where. You?"

He had begun to learn, the words that these strange men spoke.

"Ing-lend." he pronounced slowly, "Beyond the water."

"Be-ond..."

"Far."

"Ah...know." the boy grinned to show his understanding as he kicked a coming wave splattering water at the British man who with a grin of his own tossed off his shirt near his boots and picking up the giggling boy threw him into the sea.

* * *

"What is your name?"

"I am called "_Keneu' " _by some, it is...that bird, with the pale face?"

"Eagle."

"Yes. Sometimes I am called "Great Spirit"-_Gitche Man'ito_. I am this place. I am it's-" he furrowed his brow as he tried to find the words. Finally with a smile he got up from where he lay on the warm bear skins on the floor of England's cabin and crawled over to where he sat, reaching up he touched the bare skin that showed down the open V of his shirt. He tapped, a gentle rhythm. A heartbeat.

England smiled as he touched his hand, "I shall call you British America. America...Al-fred." he mused, "Alfred Kirkland."

"Am I yours?" the boys voice wavered slightly in some emotion the other didn't notice as he brought the hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the recently paling skin.

"Forever."

The native did not understand the word but the way the other caressed it in his mouth with a dark satisfied look in his eyes...he could not help but feel afraid.


	10. Your Lady of the Lake

This was getting ridiculous.

"Lemme sharpen my sword~"

"Don't call it that."

England rubbed his eyes, finding himself becoming more and more unaroused every second America wasted with this joke he had going on now that he seemed to think was quite hilarious despite the fact England was quite certain his mind should be more focused on not scuffing the meeting table beneath them, _himself_ flushed on top of it, and getting the damn lube on his "sword" faster.

"I told you a "quick" one, the others are going to show up any bloody minute and your fucking around with-"

"Do you calls yours Excalibur, King Arthur?" America said in a low purr, and England wasn't sure if it was his words or the others knuckle prodding against his entrance that had made his eyes roll back.

"W-what does that even...m-mean.."

"I'll be your lady of the lake."

America bent over the others body in between his legs and pressed kisses along his collarbone. Lingering hot and wet in the dip of his breast as he pushed that knuckle in and gave his wrist a twist. England's back arching up from the table and his legs almost closing tight around the others waist, trying to hold him there and get his mind out of the works of Sir Thomas Malory. Not that he didn't mind terrible the idea that America might have actually been _reading_ for once but now was not entirely the best time for a literature circle.

"If-if you don't put it in in five seconds I'm going to do it myself."

"I'll put the sword in the stone soon enough, chill out." he trailed his tongue over a pert nipple, teasing it until it went tight from the attention. America gave it a tug between his teeth until the other arched more, his chest lifting up into that wet heat and his back dipping in to angle his hips down for America to easily slide a finger inside. England groaned loud and bucked up, clutching tight around that one finger and trying hard to make it enough when it wasn't. His channel hot and dry around the cool wet fingers that now spread and coated his walls with the lube.

"....I thought I was a sword?"

"I KNOW. I can be Lancelot and you can be Arthur!"

The Brit tried to angle his hips up to just start to fuck _himself_ for god's sake. Twisting and rocking forward to get his finger in, just to get it to _rub_. He was losing his erection. He let his head hit back into the table with a loud sigh that he let mix in with a groan that made his throat raw.

"_Clearly_ you have not read the books or you would know the affair was with Gweni-"

The name was lost in a sudden and sharp cry as America took the hint and started to thrust not the one, but two fingers inside him. Suddenly stretching him and pressing right against- _right_ there..

"T-that's...better..tha-"

"Oh, so would rather be a woman...instead?" the blond panted a bit, stepping up a bit he put his other hand at the back of England's thigh and pushed it in, thrusting and frotting himself on the others inner thigh.

"Kiku...could be Arthur. He has a sword too you know."

England all but thrashed in frustration, or maybe he was still trying to fuck himself right while the other continued to babble idly while he was going half out of his mind with trying to just fucking get his hips angled right (which the other had been nice enough to _fuck up_ by moving his leg).

"...oh dash it all. I'll be Arthur for Christ's sake, now would you kindly just put it-"

America was way ahead of the game this time. Stroking the inside of his walls the friction from the movement sending heat and pressure right against his prostate. That was good, good enough to make him stop talking and start moaning. Breathing the others name as he felt his body going hot and getting pert and hard again. His cheeks flushing up in arousal making the even the haze of his eyes stand out sharply. He attempted to spread that leg again but America held fast to it, thrusting and chaffing his skin with the denim of his jeans.

"You... complain a lot, my lord." he panted, grinning at the corner of his lips as he spread England's leg now (would he make up his sodding mind) and pushed the tip into him, rocking slow.

"Would you _please_ just-"

"Oh I plan to. I'll slay that dragon nice and hard...right at the weak point!"

".......I hate you."

"Haha. You're gonna moan so loud anyway, my lord."

"Bloody hell- we...h-aahve..ten minutes.."

"You're only going to need three."

"Thirty at this sodding rate."


End file.
